


Houseguest

by ThePraxianWeasleyGeek



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dom!Tailgate, Edging, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, liberal use of EM fields, sliiiightly odd D/s dynamics, sub!Cyclonus, sub!Getaway, this is the most self indulgent thing I've ever written don't look at me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/pseuds/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek
Summary: It was Tailgate’s idea to begin with - which, really, oughtn’t have been that surprising. Anxious and panic-prone he might have been, but one could never exactly describe Tailgate as timid; and it certainly took guts to summon both your almost-conjunx and the mech who had almost gotten you killed, and suggest a threesome.





	Houseguest

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this is perhaps a little awkward timing, what with Cyclonus' decision in LL19... but I guess here's an alternative way for these three to work out their issues? Presumably, this would be set in an alternative timeline between MTMTE 49 and 50 where Getaway wasn't locked up.
> 
> (I still can't quite believe I wrote this, even if I started it almost exactly a year ago...)

It was Tailgate’s idea to begin with - which, really, oughtn’t have been that surprising. Anxious and panic-prone he might have been, but one could never exactly describe Tailgate as  _ timid _ ; and it certainly took guts to summon both your almost-conjunx and the mech who had almost gotten you killed, and suggest a threesome. 

 

Neither of the other two participants were entirely sure  _ why _ they'd agreed, even after long negotiation, yet still they found themselves arrayed across Cyclonus’ berth, lit by nothing more than their own optics and the occasional spot of a star beyond the window. Getaway’s servos were cuffed above his head - more as a formality than anything, though he had yet to show his hosts quite as much disrespect as to slip them off. Cyclonus pinned his arms, and between that and the knees either side of his hips, Getaway’s back was pulled into an ever-so-slight bow, running parallel to the arch that the warrior’s body described above him. 

 

Both of them were currently motionless: Getaway from playing along with the cuffs, Cyclonus out of a restraint beyond the physical. The air was full of carefully measured exvents and nothing more - though their expressions belied that particular front. Getaway’s optics were placid yet somehow challenging; Cyclonus’ so carefully blank as to leave no doubt that his tightly-furled EM field was roilling against his plating. 

 

Tailgate sat on his own berth, next to the wall, and observed this tableau with his chin propped in a hand, visor dimmed. His legs swung slightly off the edge of the recharge slab, but aside from that the mini was as unmoving as the mechs before him - until he spoke. 

 

“Hm… Cyclonus” - as Tailgate’s helm lifted, the warrior’s optics flashed once, the only indication that he'd heard his name - “I want you to use your servos. Start with his winglets.” 

 

Cyclonus’ engine rumbled in acknowledgement, and two clawed servos slid up the berth a little to tease at shiny, white kibble. Said appendages flickered and twitched at the first slide of thumbtips along their edges; Getaway’s own digits clenched above his head, and he made a small, aborted noise in the very depths of his vocaliser. 

 

It wasn't nerves - Tailgate knew that for certain. One condition of this setup was that the escapologist keep his EM field as open and loose as it would stretch, leaving no doubt whatsoever as to his intentions each moment… or, indeed, his reactions. 

 

Right now, Tailgate could read clear as day that Getaway’s fidgeting was purely down to pleasure; albeit pleasure that he was still slightly reluctant to be feeling. But he had agreed to this, when Tailgate suggested it - seemingly not as an act of true contrition, or even an attempt to fix burned bridges, but simply because he bore neither Cyclonus nor Tailgate any true ill will, and could see no reason not to indulge them. And himself, by extension.

 

That didn't matter - tonight was not about Getaway and his motivations, and whether or not he even felt guilt. Tonight was about Tailgate, and Cyclonus. Getaway was here because he had - deliberately - gotten in the way. And now, Tailgate planned to truly take back control of the situation. 

 

None of it hurt, anymore. He had Cyclonus, and Cyclonus knew, now, that he had Tailgate; and had they not suffered before, and moved past the pain, and would they not do so again?

 

And speaking of suffering…

 

“Cyclonus, I want you to…” Tailgate paused, searching for the right words. To cover up his moment of deliberation, he slid off the berth and approached the pair, coming to stand just next to Getaway’s helm. 

 

Not touching it, though - he didn't plan to lay so much as a digit on Getaway tonight. He'd stated as much beforehand, and explained why, and Getaway seemed to have understood even if he didn't appear particularly moved by it. 

 

There had been a lot of discussion, and suggestion, and agreement leading up to this comparatively fleeting moment. 

 

Perhaps predictably, the safeword was  _ nudge gun _ . 

 

“... I want you to explore him,” Tailgate finally settled on. “Don't use your glossa yet, just your servos - find his weak spots.  _ Then _ you can put your mouth on them.” 

 

Cyclonus complied with devoted efficiency, and it wasn't long before Getaway’s arousal started to show in more than just his EM. A nip to the delicate, exposed components at his neck, and his helm tipped back, optics flaring. A claw traced over a hubcap at his shoulder, and his arms trembled minutely. 

 

He soon gave up on the silent treatment, too. That almost surprised Tailgate, who had expected such an experienced spy to last much longer before cracking under pressure; but it wasn't unwelcome. If Getaway wanted to whine every time Cyclonus’ talons slid tauntingly away, and moan unabashedly when a glossa replaced them, mapping its way down his frame - well, then Tailgate would relish their guest’s violent surrender of control. 

 

However, he also intended to make things… if not  _ difficult _ for Getaway, then certainly not easy. 

 

“Okay, Cyclonus - you can put your mouth on his panel now. But Getaway, you're not to open it. Understand?” 

 

Getaway’s field pulsed an affirmative even as his engine turned over out of frustration; Cyclonus had wasted no time in laying a long, broad lick up the specified area, followed by nibbling at one of the seams on its side. 

 

Tailgate shifted his hips slightly as he watched, knowing full well how it felt to be teased so. Cyclonus would never deny Tailgate anything - but sometimes the thing Tailgate didn't want to be denied  _ was _ denial itself. The other mech’s remarkable restraint certainly came in handy in those situations. 

 

Here, however, Tailgate feared that it might be working against Cyclonus himself. Stepping closer to the jet, he first laid a servo on the berth, so as to give Cyclonus some warning and not startle him from his task - then rested the hand in question against Cyclonus’ panel. 

 

“Open,” Tailgate murmured, and the other mech complied instantly; which, judging by the impatient kick of a pede, didn't escape Getaway’s notice. His own panel had to be scorching by now. 

 

_ Well, _ thought Tailgate,  _ let him burn for a little longer. He can take it, I’m sure. _

 

Cyclonus’ spike was half-hard as it slid free, right into Tailgate’s waiting servo. It was lavished with a few languid strokes, prompting a twitch, and a barely audible grunt from the mech it was attached to - before Tailgate turned his attention to the warrior’s valve. 

 

A quick glance up the berth revealed that Cyclonus had now moved away from Getaway’s panel, instead choosing to lap and nip at the sensitive wiring of his inner thighs. Even from here, Tailgate could feel the almost painful arousal in the escapologist’s EM field… and see Cyclonus’ reaction to said arousal. His spike was curving further and further towards his abdomen, red biolights pulsing, while a small patch of dripped lubricant had collected on the berth beneath his valve. 

 

Idly, Tailgate brushed his fingers through this little puddle, inspecting the stain it left on them as he circled round to stand behind Cyclonus. Then - and without warning, this time - he reached in to run the same two digits along the outside lips of the jet’s port. 

 

Cyclonus’ reaction was instantaneous. Already on his knees, he arched his back, pushing insistently into the contact, and Tailgate’s optics brightened in a smile. Few things could ever shake the proud warrior’s stoic demeanour - but apparently, valveplay of any form was one of those undoings. It was sort of sweet, really. And a bit sad that Cyclonus responded to it  _ so _ eagerly. He was, quite frankly, a marvel; he deserved to be worshipped in berth. 

 

A particularly loud keen from the top of this berth reminded Tailgate that he was neglecting their guest. Deciding to prolong the neglect a moment further still, he thrust his digits lazily in and out of Cyclonus’ valve a few times, relishing the sound of hitched vents and the fresh gush of lubricant that this produced. 

 

With a last parting rub of his thumb over the jet’s external node - and a hum of amusement at Cyclonus’ answering groan - Tailgate regretfully stepped back, and meandered his way to where Getaway was sprawled. 

 

Cyclonus had his mouth pressed fully against the escapologist's panel again, administering tiny licks right over the spot where his sheathed spike would be. He was also pinning Getaway’s hips, and with good reason: even with such measures taken, Getaway was managing to twist and buck more than enough to make things look difficult. 

 

“If you hold still, I'll let you get your spike out.” 

 

Getaway froze in an instant, venting laboured and with an edge of desperation that he probably hoped had gone unnoticed. Tailgate couldn't blame him for it, though - Cyclonus still wasn't letting up, and the escapologist's EM had developed a constant, trembling thrum that suggested something might snap in the very near future. 

 

The minibot stood as impassive as he could for one long moment, gaze fixed on Getaway’s face. Getaway kept his own optics resolutely locked onto the top of Cyclonus’ helm. 

 

“... Alright. Cyclonus, sit back.” 

 

In one fluid motion, Cyclonus rocked onto his heels - and for a second, Tailgate thought Getaway’s EM had genuinely snapped, with its sudden, dissonant pulse of mingled relief and regret. The escapologist scissored his legs together as soon as Cyclonus was out from between them, clearly desperate to create some sort of pressure against his overstimulated array. 

 

Tailgate tutted, and tapped the nearest of Getaway’s knees. “Nope, c’mon, spread them again. I told you you had to hold still.” 

 

Getaway complied with a faint whine, drawing his pedes further up the berth before reluctantly sliding them apart. 

 

“Better.  _ Now _ you can open your panel.” 

 

The other mech’s equipment was exposed before Tailgate’s ‘now’ could fully leave his vocaliser. It made for quite a display - Getaway’s spike rested heavy against his abdomen, and the retraction of his valve cover had released a frankly impressive amount of lubricant to pool beneath his aft. 

 

Once again, Tailgate decided to push things. He simply stared at Getaway at first, drinking in the sight before him and relishing how it shot straight to his core. His own spike was pressing noticeably against its panel by now - but he summoned the presence of mind to ignore it (and quietly tucked away the smug thought that before tonight, Getaway had probably believed Tailgate too weak-willed to hold out this level of torment on him, for as long as he had). 

 

Only when Getaway’s hips began to squirm under the scrutiny did Tailgate glance up and meet Cyclonus’ optics. 

 

“Use your mouth again,” the minibot said simply. “He's all yours.” 

 

Even with a dripping valve and a spike openly leaking prefluid, Cyclonus took the time to nod solemnly before setting to work.  _ Primus _ , did Tailgate love him. 

 

And Getaway, it seemed, at the very least loved Cyclonus’ mouth, if the noises he was making were any indication. His cooling fans sputtered, dumping heat at an almost alarming rate, and Tailgate leaned in for a better view of what Cyclonus was doing - experience alone gave him a pretty good idea, but there was no way he'd pass up on seeing Cyclonus give that  _ experience _ to someone else. 

 

He'd started with Getaway’s valve. Cyclonus had always had a…  _ fondness _ for eating Tailgate out, and the mini might've been jealous of his talents being applied elsewhere, if it didn't make for such a spectacle. Swollen lips were parted by a pointed, silver tongue, that lapped up a fresh flow of lubricant before plunging inward without quarter. 

 

Folding his arms over Getaway’s abdomen - he’d been pressing his hips right up against the jet’s face - Cyclonus pushed deeper, and Tailgate felt his own valve clench in sympathy, recalling with ease the sensation of that tongue-tip carefully tripping every sensor it could taste. Cyclonus withdrew momentarily to roll Getaway’s anterior node under his tongue, which Tailgate suspected was as much for his own viewing pleasure as the enjoyment of the mech experiencing it.

 

Which wasn’t to say Getaway didn’t also enjoy it. Back arched, he was still trying to push his hips insistently into the motions of Cyclonus’ mouth.

 

“Yes- !”

 

“ _ No _ ,” snapped Tailgate immediately, as he reached out to place a servo against Cyclonus’ cheek. “We agreed on this, Getaway. You make whatever  _ sounds _ you like, but you don't  _ talk _ .” 

 

He turned back to Cyclonus.

 

“That's enough,” the mini murmured, stroking his thumb up the side of the purple mech's face. Getaway’s protest was mostly static, which Tailgate took as likely proof that the utterance had been accidental - but he couldn’t be certain, and the hand on Cyclonus’ jaw became cradling, imperative. 

 

Cyclonus pulled away with a parting lick, wordless, simply watching Tailgate with a steady gaze for a moment, as though drinking him in; and that gaze became an anchor, rooting Tailgate to the present instead of letting him start to fret about their guest’s misbehaviour.

 

Tailgate thought that he'd got it rather backwards, even so -  _ Cyclonus _ was the sight to behold right now, with his optics glowing like embers and a sheen of lubricant smeared on his chin, and Getaway’s spike lazily pulsing light up against his helm. His expression was open in a way that Tailgate rarely saw outside of this sort of berthplay. 

 

The sheer devotion in that stare would always be just a little overwhelming, in the best possible way. 

 

It was something Tailgate never would've gotten from Getaway, of that much the minibot was certain; which made this whole setup somewhat poetic. Tailgate’s visor brightened in amusement as he cupped Cyclonus’ chin, guiding the jet’s attention back towards someone who patently didn't deserve it - but who was being graced with it nevertheless, at the mini’s discretion. 

 

“Can I trust you to be quiet this time, Getaway?”

 

A short, jerky nod was Getaway’s reply, but it was the regret filling his EM field that convinced Tailgate.

 

“Good. Come on, Cyclonus - let's show him what else you can do.” 

 

There was some kind of mod that the jet had always had installed, preventing fuel from running out of the holes in his face when he drank… and allowing for proper suction. It had startled Tailgate the first time he'd gone to berth with Cyclonus; he'd known that the mod was there, but not that it had  _ settings _ . A handful of which, though Cyclonus would never admit it, Tailgate suspected were specifically tailored towards this very task.

 

Getaway didn't appear to have been expecting that, but as his spike was swallowed up his EM broadcast very pleased surprise. 

 

“Remember,” Tailgate said, tearing his gaze away from Cyclonus with difficulty. “No overloading before either of us do.” 

 

The escapologist nodded, but his helm was thrown back against the berth and his optics were overbright slits; in short, Tailgate didn't entirely trust that he planned to cooperate. Again.

 

He resolved to keep a metaphorical eye out for any warning EM pulses - but in the meantime, decided that he might as well settle in to watch the show Cyclonus was putting on. The jet’s lips were sealed around just the end of Getaway’s spike, dragging up and down torturously while Getaway’s fingers scrabbled on the wall above the berth. Every now and then the spy’s hips would twitch, and a desperate impression of  _ too much/not enough _ flashed through Getaway’s field; the accompanying flash of amusement in Cyclonus’ optics led Tailgate to believe he’d just been doing something unholy with his tongue. 

 

Cyclonus inched, slowly, down Getaway’s spike, pausing each time to suck gently and waiting until the other mech whined before continuing. He ended with his nose pressed flush to Getaway’s plating - and Tailgate made a desperate noise of his own at the sight, finally releasing his spike and wrapping a servo around its base. 

 

The jet caught his eye, and somehow Tailgate knew what he was thinking of… but no. He allowed himself a moment to entertain the image - working his spike until he spent over Cyclonus’ face,  _ marking _ him, even while he serviced Getaway - it was a definite temptation, perhaps even one to revisit later. 

 

For now, though, he shook his head fondly, and Cyclonus began to move, and Getaway keened in response. 

 

Tailgate leaned against the edge of the berth to watch, idly stroking his spike; which took the edge off enough to make him aware when Getaway drew in a loud, ragged breath, his EM giving a sudden throb - 

 

“Cyclonus, stop.” 

 

Getaway’s yell of frustration was laced with static. Tailgate frowned.

 

“I did tell you,” he said sternly. “You don’t get yours until we’ve had ours. Now, are you finally gonna behave yourself? Can you lie there and watch?”

 

A sullen nod. 

 

“Good. Cyclonus, c’mere.” 

 

Cyclonus slid from the berth to kneel slowly, almost reverently, before Tailgate, clawtips hovering over the minibot’s thighs in a silent request to touch. 

 

Tailgate let his valve cover spiral open by way of an answer; gently grasping one of Cyclonus’ horns and guiding him inwards to taste. Cyclonus licked up into his port… not frantically, but there was a definite undercurrent of hunger, finally sated, as the jet sucked and hummed and swirled his tongue. It was evident that this was what he had been looking towards all evening. Tailgate sighed happily, leaning into the edge of the berth for support. 

 

The minibot’s spike was nudging up against Cyclonus’ forehelm, right in Getaway’s view - Tailgate palmed over it a couple of times, and held the spy’s gaze as he squirmed. A moment later he had to break eye contact rather abruptly; Cyclonus, having decided to try one of the tricks he’d used on Getaway, was rolling Tailgate’s node relentlessly beneath his glossa. 

 

“A- _ ah! _ ” Tailgate gasped, head tipping backwards quite of its own accord. His fans spun up to their maximum, and Cyclonus responded by lifting his head, just slightly, to nose at the base of Tailgate’s spike. 

 

There was the smallest, most private suggestion of a smile at the corner of the jet’s mouth, as his optics snapped up to hold Tailgate’s once again. This time, the minibot knew, he wasn’t merely suggesting, but  _ asking _ . Two claws crept upwards to tease at his node once more and really, Tailgate mused through the fresh jolt of heat, didn’t ingenuity like this deserve a reward? 

 

He gripped his spike, pumping it once, twice - on the third stroke overload blazed through his circuits, in tandem with the curl of Cyclonus’ fingers and a stab of pure frustration in Getaway’s EM. Transfluid striped Cyclonus’ face, and the jet’s optics dimmed. 

 

Tailgate panted, relying on Cyclonus’ claws in his valve to work him back down again, as his own free servo tightened against the berth to keep himself steady. In one great, shuddering intake, a fritzing blue visor met red eyes fierce with adoration. 

 

Getaway, behind Tailgate, shifted restlessly - but he had yet to utter the one word he was permitted to speak, so the minibot felt no qualms about ignoring him for a moment, in favour of...

 

“... Thank you, Cyclonus. You were wonderful.”

 

A pristine white shin pressed up against a heavy, leaking spike, and Cyclonus’ groan was low and heady as he buried his face against Tailgate’s abdomen. 

 

“If you can last,” Tailgate murmured, “I’ll take care of you later. For now, though… I think it’s time you saw to our guest  _ properly _ .”


End file.
